


RUOK?

by feistycadavers



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Come Eating, Crack Treated Seriously, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexual Frustration, and this is a fic with john lowery so obviously, mentions of tim/dita and tim/sascha, the former being a fantasy and the latter being a past thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “Hey, you wanna jam?” John asks, smiling. “We could play some Van Halen, if you know the bass parts. Or Motley Crue since that'd be easy enough to make up-”“I gotta pass,” Tim says, sitting down across from him anyway. “Brian knocked me over and I caught myself with my hand weird on my stack back in Montreal. Been fucked ever since. Trying not to stress it.” John frowns.or, tim has a fucked up hand and can't jerk off. sexual frustration ensues.





	RUOK?

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MAAAAYBE THE MOST SELF INDULGENT THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN. i also decided to try to be funny, which i don't think i am, but julia thinks i'm hilarious and i trust them. shout outs to julien and ray for convincing me to write this and to riv for helping me out with a dumb joke in the middle.
> 
> the tim/dita is literally just tim fantasizing about her. the tim/sascha is a past thing mentioned in one line. let me have my rare pairs and suffer in peace.
> 
> i tried to stick to the actual ozzfest schedule but i gave up so canon has been taken out back and shot.
> 
> title is a kmfdm song

There's a tangible sense of physical danger when performing onstage with Manson. Which isn't something Tim's not used to – he'd been whacked with his fair share of Ogre's props, or shoved by En Esch, or smashed onto a tiny stage barely big enough for all four members of Shotgun. He's nearly been lit on fire before. Tim's not one to feel _safe_ onstage.

They're in the midwest somewhere – Brian called it _bumfuck Egypt_ during sound check earlier – in the middle of a near train wreck of a set. Shows with Manson were like that. Tim was never sure if they'd actually get through the set without a physical fight breaking out onstage.

Brian's up in John's face for no reason between songs. Ever since the Rock Am Ring incident John refuses to talk to Tim about, Tim's been... _intolerant_ of Brian fucking with him. John yells at him to fuck off, which Tim doesn't hear, but he's good enough at reading lips, and Brian does fuck off. Tim catches his gaze, gives him his best _what the fuck was that_ look, and Brian flips him off. Fine.

During Irresponsible Hate Anthem, Brian veers into Tim's space on stage right. Brian hooks an arm around Tim's neck, yanks him, and Tim loses his balance a bit. He fully expects Brian to still be there as he falls back, but he's already gone, and Tim throws his fret hand out behind him to catch himself against his stacks. His hand hits palm first, a sharp spike of pain shooting up into his wrist. _Ow_. Tim swears but grabs his fretboard again as soon as he's got his balance back. When he looks back at Brian, lopsided Mickey Mouse ears crooked on his head, he's taunting him, waving his hands next to his black-painted face. Fucker. That was _on purpose_. That _hurt_.

Tim doesn't mention it.

 

//

 

It's a travel night, which means they're sleeping on the bus, which means Tim has to employ his stealth jerk off techniques.

The first part of that involves staying up later than everyone else on the bus. So he stays in the back lounge with John, whose image probably comes up when one googles “creature of habit”. Every goddamn travel night, John is in the back of the bus with his vintage gold telecaster, noodling around on it and writing shit while some horror film, typically of the Universal Monster variety, plays on the one TV on the bus. Tim presumes that's probably exactly what he does in his hotel rooms every night once he finally gets a chance to sneak out of the afterparty. Tonight's film of choice is the 1931 version of _Dracula_.

Tim sits in the spot on the couch that's directly aligned with the aisle of the bus, so he can watch who's going to sleep and when. Ginger's bunk light has been off since he got into it half an hour ago, so he's likely asleep, and Pogo's light is off too but he's only been in there for about five minutes. Pogo's been reading all the philosophy books Tim brought with him. Tim notices Brian's bunk light go out. Excellent. Judging by the fact that Van Helsing has already prepared his wooden stake, the film's nearly over, which will lead to the second part of Tim's stealth jerk off techniques. Which is just a lot more waiting, really.

When the movie's over, John announces he's going to bed, so Tim says he's doing the same, which is partially true. John shuts his bunk light off immediately, and Pogo's is off by now, so it's just Tim and the bus driver, who's been listening to the new Zappa live album that came out earlier this year, and will likely prove exceptionally hard to jerk off to, but will at least be some background noise. Tim plays brick breaker on the shitty brick of a cell phone Brian insisted everyone get on account of “if I need to yell at you I need to be able to contact you to yell at you at all times”. There's just the sound of button clicking and Zappa howling about magic fingers. Ironic.

Tim shoves the phone between his mattress and the bus wall, then lays flat on his back. He considers for a moment what kind of jerk off material to conjure up, and his mind wanders back to the last seedy gas station they stopped at in and how much he regrets not buying that one copy of _Playboy_ with Dita on the cover. He'd found it stashed behind a bunch of issues of _Sport Fishing Magazine_ while looking for a new _Bass Player_ to read but Brian was like, _right there_ , and he would've ridiculed him relentlessly. Not worth it. There goes his last chance to see Dita totally naked, probably, unless some other near-abandoned convenience store they hit up for snacks still has it.

Dita naked. A good thought. His dick hears that.

Tim sighs, because, like, it's really against dude code to jerk off about your friend's girlfriend, but it should be fair game since she's been naked on the internet and stuff, right? And Brian had shown him a few of Dita's old bondage modeling photos – nothing hardcore, though he'd told Tim about a certain video of her fucking a high heel. Which, not necessarily Tim's kink, but Dita fucking anything sounds jerk off worthy. Dita fucking _Tim_ sounds _especially_ jerk off worthy. As Tim's wondering if Dita's ever done a photoshoot wearing a strap on, he slides his hand into his underwear, palms at his half-hard cock. Dita in a corset and a strap on, fishnet tights with a hole ripped for the dick to go through, maybe a paddle or a crop? Tim sighs, wraps his hand around himself, and gives one good stroke before the shock of pain shoots through his wrist. He hisses, letting go and rolling his wrist, looking at it in the dark of his bunk. Fucking _Brian_. It's as if he knew Tim would be jerking off about his girlfriend.

Tim grabs his palm with his good hand, tries to stretch his wrist both ways to loosen the joint a bit, but it just spreads the hurt into his hand bones, down his thumb. Ugh. Ow. He tries to grip his cock again but he can't really close his hand around it tight enough without the jabbing pain in his wrist again. But he's already _hard_ , so he kind of _has to_ jerk off. Tim sighs, considers it for a minute. Pogo had told him he occasionally switches masturbation hands to, quote, “keep it fresh and spicy”. Tim's not happy about the fact that he's thinking about Pogo while he has a boner, but it's worth a shot. He shifts a bit, spits in the other hand, and starts trying to work his dick.

Which, that feels super weird, but it might be enough. It feels clumsy, wanking with his right hand, despite it being his good hand. Tim's cursing his teenage self for getting used to jerking off with his bad hand. His arm starts to get tired rather quickly though, and Tim manages not to mumble in frustration. He's fucking leaking all over the place, but he can't seem to get there. He swears under his breath and decides fuck it and wads up a pillow, turns over onto it, dicks against the fabric. Ah, sweet friction. He huffs a bit, starts humping into it like some kinda horny teenager, biting his lip. Tim's desperately trying to get off, but desperately trying not to make enough noise to wake anyone. He shoves his face in his other pillow, cock drooling, agonizingly close to the edge, but never enough to come. Tim even reaches down with his usual hand, tries rubbing fingers against his asshole to push him over, but it just makes his dick throb worse.

Nothing's going to work.

The bus driver ejects the disk and it's silent. Tim lays there face down in his bunk, listening to the road noise and hissing through his teeth when the bus goes over a curb as they pull into a parking lot. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Tim pulls his underwear back up, buries himself in his blankets, and tries to fall asleep or will his erection away, whichever happens first.

 

//

 

They cross the border at some point during the night, and Tony comes through to get everyone out of the bus so it can be searched. Tim sits on the curb with his face in his hands, palms sinking into his eye sockets, praying to whatever higher power will listen that they don't get patted down, because Tim is pretty sure if someone touches his thigh he'll instantly pitch a tent, and if Brian sees him get a boner because some French Canadian border patrol cop patted him down, Tim will be forced to commit suicide.

 

//

 

Dita is at the show the next day, which is unexpected, because why would she fly out to an Ozzfest date in the middle of nowhere, but then she reminds him John's birthday is in a few days, so she's tagging along. Tim tries his best to keep his cool around her, but he still kind of has half a boner. That complicates things.

The show goes fine despite his shit wrist, though, and thankfully it _is_ a hotel night, because they have an overnight stop and a day off in Columbus halfway between Pittsburgh and Indianapolis for John's birthday show. Then they've got another day off before Milwaukee and they double back for more east coast shows, which Tim thinks is the dumbest tour routing ever, but fuck it, he's just beyond stoked to be on tour with one of his favorite fucking bands.

And thank the lord, at least the hotels are decent. Tim has slept in way too many overloaded vans and sketchy motels in his touring life. He shudders to think of the Shotgun Messiah van, which always had smoke billowing out of it like that scene in _Fast Times at Ridgemont High_ whenever the door was opened. He's pretty sure he almost got murdered one time in San Francisco. And now he gets his own whole ass hotel room to himself. And there's a huge TV and pay per view porn. Perhaps _Dead God_ was a poorly titled EP.

Tim figures, if his bad arm can't handle any jerking off, and his good arm can handle _some_ jerking off, then maybe he just needs to get most of the way there via some choice pornographic cinema and bust it out real quick. He scrolls through the pay per view porn titles, but as usual, it's full of big titted fake tanned normie chicks. John would be in heaven. Tim pages down.

 _Anal MILF Maids._ No way. Costumes in porn are stupid.

 _Big Booty POV._ Nah, POV porn is weird because the male performers are always circumcised. Takes him out of it.

 _My Step-Sister and I Share Cock_. Tim scoffs out loud at that. Damn porn studios always have to make it a step relative, but if Tim's gonna watch pseudo-incest porn, it better be full blood role play or nothing else. Step incest is like the diet soda of incest porn. The decaf of incest porn. A curse upon this earth.

 _Squirt or Die_. Sounds dangerous.

 _Dong of the Dead._ Maybe if he actually felt like watching a full length parody, because the title is hilarious. He notes that for later.

 _Gothic Anal Whores._ Now _that_ just might do the trick.

Tim relaxes, lays back into the pile of pillows, and watches as the first scene starts. Tim's pretty sure he's seen a million girls who look like these performers at their recent Ozzfest shows, and Tim's sort of always wanted to bang a fan, but gets way too worried about hurting her feelings to actually do it. John says it's something to do with him being a Sagittarius. Tim doesn't really buy all that shit, which John also says figures, because he's a Sagittarius.

Tim skips the first blowjob scene, because porno blowjobs are disgusting, and skips straight to the fucking. Luckily, the dude's not some ugly slob, but also tattooed and pretty good looking. By the end of the first scene Tim's hard as fuck, but he wants to make sure he's _really fucking into it_ , so he adds another scene to his bill too. By the time he finally actually undoes his jeans and gets his cock out, he's sticking to his underwear, leaking like a goddamn faucet. It's nearing the pop shot, and Tim might have to rush a little, but when he finally actually gets his hand around his dick his eyes practically roll back in his head. Jesus. He probably hasn't been this horny since the time Sascha sly jerked him off in the back of the van full of the rest of KMFDM, and Rammstein, and their whole crews. _Good memory_ , Tim decides, biting down on his knuckles and jerking his cock, his hips bucking up at his fist, and the dude on screen pulls out of the girl's ass to bust on her bush. Which is when Tim feels the first little prick of pain in his hand, but he's nearly there, so he ignores it. The performer on screen blows, and Tim bites harder into his fingers, fucking close to coming, but when he squeezes just the _tiniest_ bit too much, his hand cramps.

“Fuck!” Tim hisses, but not for the reason he'd like to. He lets go, flexes his fingers, the tension in his palm stretching out. He kneads into it with his thumb. Tim knows, despite the fact that the majority of the blood that should be in his brain is in his dick, that if he keeps pushing his hand like this it's only gonna keep him from jerking off for longer. The other hand won't work, and he's not about to come on the hotel sheets by humping them like some kind of monster. He may be an asshole, but he's above forcing underpaid housekeepers to wash the jizz off his sheets.

Tim shuts the TV off and takes the coldest shower humanly possible.

 

//

 

When Tim shows up for bus call in the hotel lobby in the morning, he's the last one there. He'd had to take another unreasonably cold shower to get rid of his morning wood, and he's fucking tired. He'd been rather rudely awoken around five AM to the sound of a headboard hitting his wall, and he's pretty sure Brian and Dita's room was next to his.

“You good?” John asks, and Tim looks up from his boots. John's a morning person. John's the _worst_.

“Slept like shit,” Tim mumbles, taking note of everyone else in the lobby. Brian and Dita sitting by the fireplace. Ginger reading one of the magazines in the reception area, and Pogo considering a piece of shitty art hanging on the wall. Tony's paying the bill.

“That sucks,” John says. “I sleep like crap by myself too. I sleep better on the bus.”

“You're so weird,” Tim says fondly. John just grins. Tony comes over with a a few papers, adjusts his glasses to read them.

“Alright,” Tony says, “which one'a you perverts rented _Gothic Anal Whores_ last night?”

Tim suddenly wishes he was back in the Shotgun Messiah van again.

“Wasn't me,” Brian says, “though it does sound like something I'd watch. Obviously wasn't John because it's not like, _Giant Hillbilly Jugs_ or something.”

“Hey,” John says, sounding wounded.

“Whatever,” Tony says, “but one of you owes me twenty bucks so I expect to find it taped to the bus copy of the tour schedule by the end of the day.”

Well, at least Tim's saved the public embarrassment.

 

//

 

John's birthday show's afterparty has an afterparty, and John, despite being the birthday boy, is the first to slip out. Tim follows him out. The last thing he needs right now is to either get his hand whacked again or have some hot goth girl breathe on him too hard so he gets another boner.

Tim's pretty sure he's having actually brain cell death from having not masturbated in five days now. He's gotten countless annoying erections. He wouldn't be surprised if his balls actually explode in a day or two.

But alas, music is his career, and masturbating merely a hobby. And as much as Tim fucking loves masturbating, he loves playing shows and being a functioning member of his band far better. Besides, he's gotten through the last two shows fine without too much pain. Once he gets through a pain-free show, he figures he'll be game to jerk off again. Hopefully soon.

John and Tim head back to the bus, and Tim smokes a cigarette outside just to kill off his jitters. When he gets on the bus, John's playing in the back lounge. John might be surgically attached to that vintage tele, Tim thinks.

“Hey, you wanna jam?” John asks, smiling. “We could play some Van Halen, if you know the bass parts. Or Motley Crue since that'd be easy enough to make up-”

“I gotta pass,” Tim says, sitting down across from him anyway. “Brian knocked me over and I caught myself with my hand weird on my stack back in Montreal. Been fucked ever since. Trying not to stress it.” John frowns.

“You should've told me,” he says, getting up and disappearing down the bus aisle. He returns a moment later with a wrist brace. Tim looks at him. Fucking _John_. “I keep a left handed one of these around 'cause my fret hand bugs me sometimes too. Let me see.”

Tim hesitates. He's pretty sure any physical contact with an attractive person might set him off. And John's attractive. Very. But John sits down and puts both hands out, small narrow hands with long fingers, and Tim finds himself offering up his bad hand automatically. John takes it, straightens Tim's fingers to look at his palm.

“You have a bruise,” John says. “You might not've seen it because it's on your palm and mostly gone. You didn't go to the medic?”

“Didn't seem important at the time,” Tim says. “I didn't realize it was actually bad until.” Until.

“Until?” John asks.

“Doesn't matter,” Tim says quickly.

“Let me,” John says, but Tim doesn't have time to stop him before John's thumbing at the center of Tim's palm, the other hand cradling his wrist, and Tim lets out a rather embarrassing moan that, quite frankly, could rival that of one of the gothic anal whores from the movie he watched the other night. John looks at him pointedly. “Am I that good?” he remarks.

“I fucking,” Tim says, shifting, because he's hard for the billionth time this week. He huffs, then just talks without pausing to breathe. “That's my jerk off hand and I haven't jerked off in what feels like eighty years because it hurts and I've had to listen to Brian and Dita go at it for the past two nights in a row and I tried to watch porn and I tried using my other hand and I even did the stupid dry humping the sheets shit like I'm fourteen years old and it's so bad I keep getting boners whenever someone so much as _breathes_ on me and I have seriously been considering trying to find a sex shop in one of these tour stops and buying a goddamn jerk off sleeve to shove between the mattresses in the next hotel and fuck because _I'm going to die_.”

John narrows his eyes. “You masturbate with your left hand?” he asks.

“Is that really what you took from that?” Tim asks incredulously, staring at him.

“No,” John says, gripping Tim's wrist a little tighter. “It also turns out you humping the mattress is a really nice visual.” Tim rolls his eyes and John grins. “Don't scoff at me.”

“I didn't,” Tim scoffs.

“So do you want a handjob, or no?” John asks. His thumb starts rubbing at Tim's palm again, and he really wouldn't mind that thumb doing exactly that on the spot behind his balls. Tim shivers.

“I mean,” Tim stutters, “if – if you want.”

“You said you were going to die,” John says, leaning down a bit, mouth close enough to Tim's hand he can feel his breath, “and I'd prefer you didn't.”

Tim whimpers, literally fucking whimpers. He's pathetic. He's never going this long without blowing his load ever again.

“Yeah, please,” Tim says, and John pulls his knuckles to his lips, kisses them.

“Best birthday present ever,” John says, as he reaches down to feel Tim's cock, hard in his jeans. Tim jerks embarrassingly at the contact. John slides his hand along the length, hums against Tim's knuckles. “Best _ever_.”

“Just don't – fuck,” Tim moans, as John takes one of his fingers into his mouth, “don't expect me to last-”

“I don't,” John says, the digit still in his mouth. Tim undoes his belt with his free hand and John practically rips the button fly open, pulling the front down. “I think it'll be hot to see you lose it fast.”

“Christ,” Tim mumbles, because that's the most foul-mouthed thing he's ever heard John say and it's _hot_. John's hand slides into his underwear.

“What the fuck is in the water in Sweden?” John asks, and actually hearing the fuck word come out of John's mouth startles Tim a bit. “This thing's _huge_.”

“Uh,” Tim says. He's never sure how to respond to the Big Dick Comment. “Thanks?” He's still a little not all there because, like, his dick is in John's hand, and it's getting _touched_ , which feels _great_.

“You're already leaking,” John comments, thumbing over the head of Tim's cock and licking the precum off his finger. “God, stop looking at me like that.”

“Fuck, I'm sorry,” Tim says, smearing his good hand over his face. “Can we just.” Tim gestures, but John doesn't kiss him, so Tim does it first. John hums his approval into Tim's mouth, shifts up closer, actually gets Tim's cock out. He works him up slowly, hitching a knee over between Tim's legs to rest on his thigh, and Tim knees up into him. John purrs and Tim moans into John's mouth.

“That's good,” John murmurs, nose smashed against Tim's, adjusting his grip a little tighter, getting a good stroke going. Tim practically goes cross-eyed, mouth hanging open dumbly. “There you go.” John's voice is soft, gentle, encouraging.

“Fuck,” Tim gasps, voice shaking. John's got his grip right in the right spot, his thumb rubbing right against the underside of his head, skin pulled back. John's other hand brushes through Tim's hair, holding his mouth close to his own, and he rocks himself against Tim's leg. Tim feels that he's hard, his good hand grabbing blindly at the erection in his jeans, and John's breath hitches.

“Nah, let me take care of you,” John says quietly, and Tim nods, far past use of the English language. Tim just gives a gentle squeeze. John moans softly, increasing his pace on Tim's cock, and Tim just groans, his head falling back into John's hand. “You're so fucking hot, like, _obscene_ , what the fuck-”

“You're so fucking good at that, _Jesus_ ,” Tim grits out, fucking up into John's fist. John tightens his grip and Tim digs his red nails into John's thighs, desperately trying to hold onto him.

“Good boy, so fucking good,” John whispers, mouthing at Tim's neck, and Tim shudders, hips lifting off the couch.

“Close,” Tim chokes out, and John pulls his head back up, kisses him again. Tim moans into it, cock jerking in John's hand, spilling over and over and over and over, thick and hot and endless all over John's fingers and his shirt and his jeans. John makes a quiet satisfied noise, pulls back just far enough to shove his fingers in his mouth, sucking the come off them. Tim just pants, staring as John licks between his fingers, then reaches down to gather more come. Holy shit. Did Tim make that big of a mess? He looks down. _Oh_. Well.

“Thanks for the birthday present,” John remarks. Tim laughs once at him. John reaches over, picks up the wrist brace, and Tim lets him fasten it onto his bad hand. “The next time you wanna get off, just tell me first. I'll take care of you.” John smirks.

Tim thinks he might give up masturbating as a hobby entirely if it means more of John.


End file.
